HOW THERE CAME NEW GUESTS INTO THE HOUSE.
The last day that I ventured out in this foolhardy manner I had a
terrible fright which even now it is distasteful to remember. I was
hurrying to get home, being warned by the darkening light that it was
drawing near Althea's time to return, and, chancing to look behind me as
I turned a corner, I was aware that not many paces from me was a man,
tall and sturdy, who seemed to be following me, his eyes being fixed on
me; and when I turned it seemed to give him a kind of start, for he
looked away, and made as if he would cross to the other side. This
alarmed me, and I quickened my pace from a walk almost into a run,
resolving meanwhile not to look round again; yet I could not resist the
fancy that I heard steps coming after me; and glancing over my shoulder
I was aware of some one at no great distance off; on which I dared look
no more; and, being now very near home, I darted round to the back
entrance; and having got in and made the door fast, I sat down
trembling, to get my breath.
I was still much disquieted, when I heard the joyful sound of Althea's
signal at the back door; I flew to open to her, my hands trembling so I
could hardly withdraw the bolts. But when I got the door open, it was
not Althea who stood without, but that very man whom I had tried to
escape; he stood with his back to the sky, which was red and glowing,
for it was just past sunset; and I saw him to be tall and powerful and
roughly clad, so sunburnt that he might have been a Moor; and a long
scar that ran from his eyebrow half across his cheek gave a strange
fierceness to his look. This was all I could see, his back being to the
light, such as it was. I gave a smothered shriek, and would have shut
the door on him; but he said,--
'Not so hasty, mistress--look at me again, and you will not turn me
away, I think.'
But I still held the door in my hand, and said hastily, 'I can admit no
stranger--you should know this house is infected--what do you seek?' at
which the man's eyes, which I saw to be blue and bright, began to
twinkle, and he said,--
'You will think it odd, madam, but I am come seeking my true love--Lucia
Dacre is her name; do you know aught of her?' with which words he
smiled, and all his face changed in that smile into the face of my own
Harry.
My heart sprang up in sudden rapture; I think, as the play says, it
'leaped to be gone into his bosom,' for there I found myself the next
moment, clasped tight in his arms, and holding him tight enough too,
while I laughed and sobbed, crying out, 'Are you indeed my Harry? am I
so blest beyond all other women? have you come back to me, alive from
the dead?'
'You may say indeed, sweetheart, that I am alive from the dead,' he said
seriously; 'in a double sense I was dead and am alive again. But my tale
must wait for a better time. I am sent before, dear love, to tell you
your sister is coming, and not coming alone.'
'Who is coming with her? any one beside Will? have you come to say she
hath found Andrew? has she indeed?' I cried.
'Ay,' said Harry, 'he is found; but I fear we may lose him again. Have
you here a place, Lucy, here a dying man may lie softly and easily, the
little time he has left? If not, make one ready quickly--but no stairs
for him, remember. I would help you, dear heart,' he said tenderly,
'were it not that I must keep watch here for their coming.'
I turned my lips to his hand, as I unclasped my arms from him; then I
flew to do as he had bidden. I dragged the coverings off our own bed and
hastily spread a couch in that room where we commonly sat; I set lights,
food, cordials in readiness on the table; then I ran back to the door,
half afraid my Harry would have vanished like a dream; but there he was,
watching yet; so I took my place beside him, and loaded him with
questions about the finding of Andrew. I learned he had a large share in
it.
'A poor seaman who loved me,' he said, 'met me this morning when I
landed at Woolwich; and he testified such extravagant joy on seeing me
that I own I half thought him mad.'
'Then what can you think of me?' I put in; at which Harry said,--
'Nay, Lucy, you were ice compared to this poor fellow. He is one that
hath tasted Andrew's bounty, and that not long since; for his wife
sickened of the Plague, and our Andrew at his own cost provided a
physician for her, and many other comforts; and 'tis owing to that, the
man thinks, that she is now sound and well.'
'Where was this?' I said, wondering.
'Here, in London,' said Harry. 'Now close on this woman's recovery came
the seizing of Andrew, and 'tis but lately that the poor grateful sailor
discovered how his benefactor had been lying long in Newgate, where he
was thrown by one Ralph Lacy's procurement.'
'Ah!' I said, 'that wretch! but he has paid for it, Harry. But why could
Althea never find Andrew before?'
'I cannot tell by what devilish prompting it was,' he said, 'that Lacy
bore Andrew and every one else down, that his true name was not Golding,
but Dewsbury--William Dewsbury, as I think; and that he had shifted his
name to avoid prosecution, having been once imprisoned already; and
what our poor friend said to the contrary being slighted as a lie, his
true name has never been given him. So inquiry after him has been
crippled; and not by this means only.'
'But if this sailor be so grateful, why did he not come to our poor
friend's help?' I said indignantly; but Harry said, sighing,--
'A destitute seaman! why, there be throngs of them and their wives
starving in the streets, and cursing the navy officers because they
cannot get their own hard wages. And this was why my poor fellow showed
such frantic joy on seeing me--'twas for love of Andrew; he hurried his
tidings on me, and bade me hasten to the gaol and relieve my friend;
himself going there with me, else I had not sped so well.'
Now how Harry sped at the prison I learnt afterwards; for at this point
his tale was cut short; but I will put the story here, where it seems
fittest.
By great good fortune Althea encountered with Harry and the seaman Ned
Giles at the very gate of the prison, and she soon bought leave to visit
the prisoner called William Dewsbury, who lay under lock and key in a
very filthy cell, and had latterly been denied even bread and water,
because his money being spent he could not satisfy his gaoler's demands.
They found him lying on a heap of mouldy straw; he was miserably wasted,
and to all seeming lifeless; yet they knew him at once for Andrew; and
Harry perceived there was life yet in him. Althea, however, seeing him
lie as if dead, rose into fiery indignation; she turned to the gaoler,
saying, in a terrible voice,--
'See there, murderer! that is your work--the blood of this man shall lie
on your soul for ever--it shall drown you in perdition!' at which he
cowered and shrank ('and well he might,' said Harry), stammering out
'twas an oversight, a pure accident; and she going on to threaten him
with law and vengeance, he asked hurriedly, would not the lady like to
remove the poor man, and give him honourable burial? at which Harry
whispered her, 'Take his offer quickly; say not a word more of revenge;'
and Althea, guessing his meaning, softened her tone a little, and
consented to the man's proposal. 'Get me only a coach,' said she, 'and I
will have this poor lifeless body to mine own home; and I will not
charge you with the murder.'
So they fetched a coach; but the driver, seeing as he thought a dead man
brought out and laid in it, flung down the reins and refused to drive
them.
'I am well used to drive sick folks,' he said (indeed that was now the
chief use of hackney coaches), 'but a corpse I never drove and never
will.'
Althea, however, stepped in herself, and bade Will get on the box and
take the reins; then whispering to Harry, she told him where to find me,
and begged he would prepare me for her coming. 'I shall soon master this
knave's scruples,' she said; 'he is but bringing them to market, and I
am ready to buy them;' and as I suppose, she paid a heavy price for the
use of that coach for an hour, saying her man should drive it to her
house and then return it empty to the coachman.
For while Harry and I stood talking at the door, his tale was broken by
the rumbling of wheels; and the coach coming lumbering up, we perceived
Will to be the driver.
'That is well,' said Harry; 'it will not be known where you dwell.' As
he spoke the coach stopped, and Althea put aside the close-drawn
curtains. She called Harry to her, and said softly,--
'Now help me to lift him, good friend--but be very gentle; he lives, he
speaks, but he is deadly weak;' and with infinite care she and Harry
lifted out a poor shrunken figure that seemed light as an infant in
their arms; and I leading the way they brought it in and laid it on the
couch I had got ready; there Althea, sitting down, drew Andrew's head on
to her bosom, supporting him with her arms, and murmuring tender words
in his ear. Harry stayed to speak a word to Will before he drove off,
and then returning he stood by me a moment and gazed with me at those
two; 'twas a sight to chain one's eyes fast, to see Althea's face, still
heavenly fair in spite of her anguish, bending over Andrew's, which was
livid in colour, all but fleshless, and the eyes deep sunk in their
sockets; yet he smiled, a smile full of a strange radiance; and he moved
his colourless lips, saying something which Althea bent her head very
low to hear; then looking up wildly and seeing Harry,--
'Have you brought a physician?' she cried; 'there is no time to
lose--he is dying for lack of help.'
'That he shall not,' said Harry, who was now knelt beside Andrew, and
offering a cordial to his lips; 'here is no disease but hunger, dear
lady--I have learnt by sharp experience how to minister to that;' and in
two hasty words he bade me go and warm some broth, of which luckily I
had told him; so I went quickly.
Now when I came back I saw there was more company in the room; for Will
had come in, and with him a man and woman; but I did not note them much,
for it seemed to me that Andrew was swooning, his eyes being closed. But
Harry took the broth from me and began to feed Andrew with it; and at
the warm scent of the food he revived a little. It charmed me to see the
tender skill which my Harry showed in his ministerings. As I stood
looking on, the woman came up to me, and with a sort of simple grace let
me know who she was; 'twas Mary, the wife of Ned Giles, the seaman, and
the man with her was Giles himself.
'You will forgive us, madam,' she said, 'for thrusting our company on
you unbidden; it's for love of this your kinsman we come, Mr. Truelocke
having sent us word we could be useful about him.'
'Kay,' I said, 'never ask forgiveness for such goodness; do you know
this house is reputed to be infected?' but she said, smiling,--
'Madam, I who was all but dead of the Plague not long since have little
fear of it left.'
While she spoke I saw that Harry was urging something on Althea, who was
still sitting at Andrew's head; she answered at last, 'As you will. I
may not gainsay you;' and yielded up her place to that good woman, who
came eagerly to take it when Harry called her.
'Now go and rest awhile till we call you--you have need,' Harry said to
us; but Althea, as if she heard him not, stood looking down on Andrew
and his nurse.
'Does God forget His own?' she muttered; 'is this the reward of His
servants? chains, cruelty, starvation?'
Andrew must have caught her words, for he half raised his head, and his
languid eye brightened.
'Dear heart,' he said feebly, 'thou knowest little yet. Thou hast seen
my prison, thou didst not see the Heavenly Guest who made it a heaven
to me; thou hast seen me lacking bread, thou knowest nought of the
angels' food with which He fed me.'
As he said this he sank down again, but Mary Giles caught him in her
arms; and Harry said imperiously to Althea and me,--
'Leave him to us; it is best he should not speak; get you to your own
rest, you need to renew your strength; so we went meekly enough, Althea
saying when we were in our sleeping-room,--
'Harry hath got the trick of command very perfect, that's certain; and I
may say, Lucy, I am weary at last of ruling over you and Will; it's not
amiss there is one here who has a mind to rule me instead.'
Then we knelt down together and gave thanks for the great mercy of the
day; and we implored passionately that the life of Andrew should be
given back to us. Althea at the end of our prayer still remained
kneeling; then beginning to weep she sobbed out, 'I think, I hope, I can
say, "His will be done," but oh, 'tis hard, Lucy!' And she was so torn
and shaken with her passion that I thought she would take no rest that
night. But in five minutes after our heads touched the pillow we were
both sleeping soundly: and we woke not till there came a knocking at our
door, very early in the morning, and Will's voice praying us to descend
and take some food.